


March: Dissonance

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Series: A Figure of Speech [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Anger, Angst, Artists, Bitterness, Established Relationship, M/M, Neglect, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-31
Updated: 2008-03-31
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>March has brought Viggo home, but has he brought home harmony?</p>
            </blockquote>





	March: Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet follows approximately a month after **[February: Meiosis](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/365122.html)** (which in turn follows after **[January: Pathetic Fallacy](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/359714.html)** ), but can be read as a standalone if so desired.

  
_" **[D]issonance,** harshness of sound and/or rhythm, either inadvertent or deliberate. The term is nearly equivalent to cacophony, but tends to denote a lack of harmony between sounds rather than the harshness of a particular sound in isolation."_  
~From _The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms_ by Chris Baldick.

The ceiling shuddered, loosing a small flurry of stucco to spiral down and settle on the piano case, white flecks of plaster marring the mahogany sheen. Another rumble, and Sean glared up at the invisible culprit, dragging God knows what across the floor. Much more racket up there, and the neighbours were going to complain. Sean sighed -- a deep, soul-cleansing sigh -- and ran his fingers lightly over the piano keys, the pressure so gentle that not the slightest wire trembled.

At least Viggo was home, Sean supposed. Or perhaps "in the house" was the better description, as he was here in body, but miles away in mind.

He'd shown up a couple weeks ago, unannounced as usual, letting himself in and dumping his bags on the bedroom floor before Sean even knew he was there. In fact, he'd given Sean quite a fright, popping up from behind the door as Sean stepped out of the shower, arms loaded down with crunchy granola hippie crap guaranteed to leave your hair greasy and your skin dry while protecting the [Indo-Pacific Humphead Wrasse](http://www.panda.org/about_wwf/what_we_do/species/about_species/species_factsheets/humphead_wrasse/index.cfm) from encroaching fishing operations or coral reef degradation or lead poisoning from old World War II mines or some other horrific fate. No doubt at some point in the past Viggo'd gone on about the plight of the wrasse for hours on end after a bit of weed and one beer too many, just like always. And just like always, he didn't show one lick of concern at Sean's shout, at the way he'd slipped on the wet tile and nearly crashed backward into the shower, narrowly avoiding breaking his neck.

In Sean's darker moments, he wondered if Viggo was hoping for a quick, clean end to things, something simple and neat, where he'd play the grieving lover left behind for a suitable space, withdraw into his work without anyone reminding him of the whole wide world waiting for him.

But with this morning's arrival of a crate -- as impossibly large as it was thin -- Viggo'd retreated to his upstairs studio, crowbar in hand, and there'd been nothing but banging and dragging and thudding since then; no reason to pretend life trumped art, no reason to pretend Sean mattered more than canvas and paint. He'd even skipped what was becoming the customary morning routine of hangdog glances over coffee and toast in favour of being with whatever was trapped behind wood and nails. Sean knew what that meant, knew what had kept Viggo away from him all this time, and knew that "work" or "press junket" or "post-production pickups" weren't it.

It was so much easier when one's lover was having an affair with flesh and blood.

Glancing down, Sean was surprised to find his fingers no longer resting against ivory and black, curled instead into a fist, pink knuckles sliding towards white. He knew, when the next thunderous thumping began, that if he looked up he'd see the fan swaying alarmingly in its settings, Viggo's disregard for anything and anyone outside of almighty art transmitted in vibrations and waves.

The impact of fist to keys provided Sean with a satisfyingly chaotic chord, a jumble of notes crashing against one another, a muddled snarl of force and sound overriding all thought.

For a moment, the cacophonous clamour above his head subsided, the house -- and presumably Viggo -- holding their breath.

For a moment, in the settling silence, ears ringing with anger, Sean could pretend he was alone.

And for just that one perfect moment, alone was all he wanted to be.


End file.
